


Helter Skelter

by fouroux



Category: U2
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Angst, Frottage, Leather Kink, M/M, Masturbation, Wet Dream
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-07
Updated: 2015-09-07
Packaged: 2018-04-19 14:59:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,305
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4750592
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fouroux/pseuds/fouroux
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Bono purchases a pair of leather trousers, Edge finds himself in a whole world of trouble.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Helter Skelter

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was inspired by [this post on Tumblr](http://kronhjorten.tumblr.com/post/127749867383/kronhjorten-kronhjorten-thebedge). I was actually aiming for a bit of crack fic, but then Edge decided to dump his teenage angst all over my story and this is what it turned out to be.

Sighing, Edge flipped through his NME magazine for the third time now and came to the conclusion that he really had read all there was to read. The Top Ten Albums Of The Year still hadn't changed for the better.  
  
“How is Meat Loaf still among the Top 30?”  
  
“You've asked me that twice now, Edge. I still haven't the foggiest.”  
  
Edge shook his head a little and leaned in further above the magazine in his lap, trying to focus on the numbers and album names instead of his naked band mate rustling about in their dingy hotel room. As it turned out, Edge found himself to be in a bit of trouble. What had started out as a healthy fascination with the loud and likeable rebel of the band while back home, had now morphed into a strange attraction whilst living under the intimate conditions of a life on the road. Any attempt to excuse the weird tickling sensation between his ribs whenever the singer breached the invisible boundaries of personal space (and he did that a lot) came to an abrupt end during that one night on the road between Blackpool and Edinburgh. Surely, waking up under a heap of blankets pressed to your best mate's rump with a raging stiffy wasn't what anyone would call platonic.  
  
“Well, if you'd hurried up, we would already be on our way to the gig and I wouldn't have to read this magazine for the fourth time. Also, Paul already knocked twice while you were in the shower using up all the hot water,” Edge stated matter-of-factly and turned another page. There was no answer, only more rummaging and rustling, then a smooth sliding sound Edge couldn't quite put his finger on, and before he could stop himself curiosity won over. He glanced sideways and saw Bono's pale sturdy legs disappear into a pair of jet black tubes.  
  
“What are _those_?!”  
  
Bono looked up with a proud grin plastered to his sharp features and pulled the pair of leather trousers over his thighs and hips. He turned towards Edge sitting on his narrow bed, still wriggling inside the tight fit and pulling at the rim until the leather hugged his legs like a second skin.   
  
“Real leather trousers, Edge! Aren't they totally cool?”  
  
Involuntarily, Edge's eyes fluttered down to Bono's hand digging inside the front for a couple of quick adjustments before he fastened the zip with a flick of the wrist. Edge blinked rapidly, feeling his face grow warm as he whipped his head back up to ask incredulously, “Real leather trousers don't require underwear?”  
  
“They're a little too tight for that,” Bono admitted and looked down himself, but seemed to be pleased overall and stemmed his hands against his sides, grinning impishly down at him. “Feels nice, though. Might get a little cosy in there after a while, but a rockstar's got to take some risks, right, Edge?”  
  
“Right,” Edge muttered, eyes fleetingly catching a glimpse of a creamy white stomach and a dark trail of hair leading teasingly into those blasted new trousers before Bono turned away to pick up a white shirt laying on his rumpled bed. Heat pooled between Edge's legs, and it was so embarrassingly sudden that he looked down to confirm that the NME magazine was still covering his lap sufficiently.   
  
“I'm ready, Edge, let's go,” Bono announced, because when the singer was ready the world was expected to be ready as well. Bono grabbed his coat from an old looking armchair in the corner of their room and pulled it on.   
  
“Uh, you go ahead. Have to take a leak before we go,” Edge lied, shifting over to the edge of his bed with the magazine still carefully covering his crotch. He dearly hoped he wasn't blushing as hard as he felt he was, but then again it seemed all his blood had gone south anyway.  
  
“Are you serious? You were pestering me this whole time to hurry and now--”  
  
“You were blocking the bathroom!”  
  
“Alright, alright,” Bono grinned and straightened his collar, standing by the door. “I'll tell everyone we'll be late because of you then.”  
  
The NME magazine came flying and hit the door as Bono shut it quickly behind himself in a fit of giggles.

 

 

***

Once in the van and on their way to the club, Bono's leather trousers were the topic of conversation the whole ride long, much to Edge's chagrin, who had wisely planted himself in the front seat next to their manager, clutching his guitar case and trying to focus on the gig ahead while he stared outside the window. 

In the back seat, Adam was thrilled by Bono's new purchase. He called the trousers _pretty swell_ in his posh voice, a cigarette dangling in the corner of his mouth while he wondered whether they could swap them some time. Larry, failing to hide his envy (because he had to admit his bootcut jeans were getting out of style), grumpily pointed out that there was no way Adam would fit into Bono's trousers - “Unless you fancy yourself some leather shorts, that is.” A bit of a brawl ensued in the back before Paul yelled at them and nearly missed a red light, Adam laughed during the whole thing and Edge clutched his guitar case even harder.

They arrived in one piece, got on stage and did their thing in front of a rather decent crowd. The club was packed and loud, the roof dripping and the stage lights burning into their necks. There were only few fuck ups, which – in retrospect – seemed surprising to Edge as he had all but stared at Bono all evening long from his corner of the stage. The singer did his usual thing, jumping and dancing about, strangling the microphone cord and singing with such ardency that the tendons in his neck stood out hard and rigid by the time “I Will Follow” echoed through the speakers. Edge played himself into a frenzy watching the leather around Bono's hips and thighs stretch and strain as he bounced this and that way on the stage, nearly flinging himself into the cheering audience. Sometimes Bono would touch his own legs, caress them almost; he seemed to enjoy the feeling of it as his damp body made the trousers hug his form all the more. And Edge could smell them, whenever Bono came close enough he could smell the warm leather mixing in with the familiar smell of Bono's sweat. It was so maddening Edge had to press the back of his Explorer hard over another erection he couldn't help but hide. He played and played, his own sound ringing in his ears as he shook the guitar's neck almost brutally, and when Bono threw him a roguish smile over the shoulder that emitted so much exuberant joy, Edge wanted to cry.

 

 

***

A few days later, Edge woke with a start.

It was dark, and he realized his eyes were suddenly wide open, zigzagging across the ceiling as his heart pounded like a herd of mustangs running up and down his ribcage, lungs pulling in air in big gulps. He was sweating and feeling strangely forlorn. Something was wrong, utterly wrong, and as his mind raced to find a shred of memory to hold on to, he remembered: dark hair and broad hips clad in leather, endless collarbones growing into broad shoulders, and a red, red mouth; whimpering.

A dull throb pulsed through his abdomen, and Edge sobbed involuntarily as he realized he was gripping his waning erection beneath the clammy sheets. The touch was almost too much to take, and all he wanted to do was curl up into himself and feel endlessly ashamed about it.

“Edge?”

Feeling caught despite the total darkness (who knew what sounds he might've made!), Edge pressed his lips together, trying to breathe a little more evenly through his nose. He thought he still sounded like he had just run a bloody marathon.

“Edge, y'alright?” Bono's hushed voice sounded husky and sleepy, and as Edge dared to turn his head, he thought he could make out an even darker lump sitting up in the blackness of the room. “Sounded like you had a nightmare or somethin'.”

A nightmare made of an Irish boy with blue eyes and way too many freckles to count, Edge thought and pushed himself up and away from his damp pillow. “I'm fine,” he croaked eventually, mouth dry and tasting funny, as he swung his legs out of the bed. He got up, took some wobbly steps and winced at the uncomfortable stickiness glued to the front of his pyjama bottoms.

“Are you sure?” Bono's voice called after him, but Edge ignored it and disappeared inside the cold bathroom, shutting the door firmly behind himself while he squinted at the harsh white light biting into his eyes. He went to the sink, the tiles cool beneath his naked feet, and turned on the tap to splash some water onto his blazing red face. 

“Shit,” he whispered, gripping the sink and staring at the water run down the drain as a wave of nausea rolled up at the back of his throat. He was trembling and scared; scared of these strong, wild feelings which had suddenly taken such ferocious control over his body and mind. Edge felt terrible enough as it was, lusting after his best mate, having these confusing thoughts and feelings about him, it just wasn't right; and now this. His desire illogically multiplied by a piece of clothing. It was unfair how much power it held over him since that gig in London and it frightened Edge as much as it turned him on. 

A sob escaped him, one he hoped couldn't be heard over the running water, and he quickly splashed his face again before he could feel even more miserable about himself. His face still dripping and hands wet and cold, he quickly stepped out of his pyjama bottoms and started to clean them as best he could with a little water and toilet paper. Edge dabbed almost angrily at the spot, feeling so helpless as he wanted so much to talk to his best friend, ask for advice from the older boy, only to remind himself that Bono was the problem at hand. He couldn't confide in anyone about this, not without dying of embarrassment and shame anyway.

Slowly, the hollow post-orgasm feeling faded, and so did Edge's mind find a bit of calmness again as he neatly cleaned himself and his pyjama bottoms. Stepping inside the wet garment was awkward all over again, but it took only a couple of seconds for the cool fabric to feel strangely comforting against his crotch. Taking a deep breath and a fleeting look at the mirror, Edge turned to open the bathroom door as quietly as he could, expecting Bono to be asleep again, hugging his pillow and snoring softly just like always. However, the slim beam of light coming from the bathroom as Edge stepped outside shortly illuminated Bono's figure sitting on Edge's bed instead. He switched off the light quickly and closed the door, hoping it was dark enough so Bono wouldn't spot his pyjama bottom mishap, and walked over to climb onto his bed.

“Hey,” Bono's voice was soft, almost a whisper. “Edge, are you okay?”

Edge pushed his legs quickly under the sheets and pulled them up to his lap. “Yeah, sure. It was just a weird dream, is all. I'm fine.”

He thought he saw Bono nod in the dark and he seemed to be playing around with a fold in the sheets before he whispered on: “Are you homesick?”

Edge gave that question a moment's thought. He loved his family dearly, home meant love and acceptance to him, but also a sense of not belonging, college and the threats of unemployment. To be here, on the road, doing what he loved and knew best how, that was what he lived for. Despite feeling shaken by his recently developed feelings, he was still with his friends, experiencing this mad adventure as a band and growing up together; the bumps on the road were meant to be there, Edge figured.

“No. No, I'm not,” he answered honestly after a short while, and when even more silence followed it dawned upon him that Bono might not have asked only for the sake of getting an answer, but to be asked in return. “Are you?”

“Maybe a bit.”

How ironic, Edge thought, that he himself with the loving family and the promise of a girlfriend back home wasn't homesick at all. He missed them, yes, but he felt no real desire to return. While Bono, with his dysfunctional relationship to his dad and brother, and a girlfriend that broke up with him on an almost weekly basis, felt the opposite. Then again, Bono probably missed home since he was 14.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Edge asked softly, knowing some things were easier to say in the dark, and some things were never meant to be said at all.

“Nah,” Bono huffed, and Edge couldn't see, but he just knew Bono was giving him his brave rascal grin in the dark, trying to be grown up about it. “Nevermind, I'm just tired. Good night, Edge,” he placed an innocent peck on Edge's cheek, yet instead of getting up and into his own bed, he laid back and huddled up under Edge's sheets, twisting this and that way until he was comfortable and still. Edge stared at the figure next to him, feeling flushed all over again, and ruffled his own shaggy hair with his fingers, sighing quietly.

“Goodnight, Bono,” Edge whispered and laid down with his back to him, lying awake until he heard the familiar snores before falling asleep as well.

 

 

***

“Well, that was shite.”

“You don't say,” Adam muttered dryly, flicking the stub of his finished cigarette onto the street while he leaned against a light post across from Toad's Place. The gig had ended spectacularly early, thanks to Bono falsely believing their drummer was sabotaging their show by hiding behind his drum set (which, in fact, had only needed some desperate fixing), and thus promptly chasing the poor lad off the stage in a fit of rage. Now Bono was prowling the pavement with an aching jaw, while Larry was moping, sitting on the frosty curb next to Edge who was gently holding his stinging knuckles in his lap. Edge had not meant to hit Bono, but something about that swing had felt strangely satisfying. Being so helplessly sexually frustrated for weeks now, as well as utterly irritated by Bono's constant affections and lack of sense for personal space, and yet being hungry for each and every single one of those moments, had him quickly irritated. Letting some of that go with his fist had felt good, yet the surprise in Bono's wide blue eyes had also made him regret it immediately. At least it had smacked some sense into the raging singer.

“I'm sorry, okay? I didn't--”

“Yeah, you weren't thinking, as per usual,” Larry grumbled, looking defensively up at Bono with his hands balled into fists stemmed against his cheeks. With Edge and Adam around, he probably thought Bono wouldn't have a go at him again. And he didn't; everyone was too disappointed by how things had went down. No gig, no cash and a disappointed crowd as well as a furious Paul, who was desperately trying to fix things back inside Toad's Place.

Edge glanced up from beneath his shaggy fringe, eyes fixated on the shiny material stretching around Bono's legs and hips as he walked past to bicker with the sulking drummer. Not that he would have bothered to listen on any other day, Bono's and Larry's quarrels usually ended with flying fists (a ritual they had perfected, usually without really hurting each other, to let off any testosterone driven steam), but Edge found it once again particularly hard to focus with Bono's leather-clad hips prancing past his nose.

“I thought you were trying to piss me off!”

“Maybe next time that's exactly what I'll do, you knobhead!”

Edge had hoped the effect would wear off, that he would get used to the sight. On the contrary, the situation had gradually worsened from constantly playing half-hard on stage, to regularly reoccurring wet dreams about Bono rubbing up to him in his leather trousers. There had been one especially embarrassing evening where Edge had fled the post gig celebrations and performance discussions to have a furious wank in a dirty toilet stall instead. There might have been some desperate tears involved and many beers after, Edge couldn't quite remember. According to everyone’s stories the next day, which he had woken up to wearing only his jeans and one sock, suffering from a pounding headache, he had spent the whole evening downing one pint after the other. Being the lightweight he was, Adam had eventually dragged him back to their sleazy hotel by the armpits, much to everyone's amusement. The ride in the van that day had been exceptionally unpleasant for Edge.

“Come on, Lar'--”

“No.”

Edge blinked, dragging himself away from his thoughts, to find the two boys next to him scuffling again. He leaned away a bit, watching warily as Bono tried to force his apology upon Larry with a hug the drummer refused to accept. 

“Christ, Bono, just piss off!”

There was a hard shove, followed by a surprised puff of air leaving unsuspecting lungs; Bono stumbled, tripping over Edge's legs, who was sitting next to the whole thing, and landed right across his lap with a yelp. Larry burst out laughing, his anger gone as quickly as it sometimes bubbled up, and once the initial shock faded Bono joined right in.

“Very graceful,” Adam chuckled somewhere next to them, uncontrollable giggles still filling the street while Edge groaned from the blow to his stomach. Opening his eyes after the initial stab of pain, he nearly froze. Bono's hip was digging into his still stinging belly, his body shaking with giggles as he laid across Edge's lap with his upper body laying back on the cold curb. It was beautiful, the way he laughed; his whole face was bright with mischief, his smile edging deep lines into his cheeks, revealing small teeth that stood just slightly too far apart. “Ow, I'm sorry, Edge,” he giggled and pushed himself up on the ball of his hands. “Did I hurt ya?”

“No,” Edge stuttered, another one of those familiar hot flashes creeping up his face as Bono flung his arms around Edge's neck without hesitation. His biceps and forearms were cold against his throat, they had kicked them all out of the club and into the December night without giving anyone the chance to pick up their spare clothes and coats, and Bono still smelled of sweat and leather and smoke. “Edge forgives me, though. Don't you, Edge?”

Edge shuddered, it was a small ripple down his spine that peaked into a shaky exhale from his lungs, staring down at Bono's lap in his with those arms still around him. Shiny smooth leather bunched up into wrinkles and folds, framing a firm crotch, then stretched along hard, angled thighs. Edge was growing hard so fast he nearly winced, and his initial impulse was to push Bono off his lap, but there was no way he could even bear _touching_ him to do so.

“He was right to take that swing at you, though,” he heard Adam's voice say next to them.

“Knocked me right out!” Now that the anger and confusion was gone, Bono laughed about the whole thing. “Remind me not to pick a fight with a man who earns his living from hand to eye coordination.”

They snickered and Edge offered a shaky smile, trying not to rouse any suspicion and holding perfectly still as Bono's weight pressed deliciously down on his erection. There was no way he was going to get away with this without Bono noticing, he thought miserably, trying to will his stiffy away without success.

“Lads, Paul's coming back,” Adam suddenly warned them and pushed himself away from the light post, a cigarette once again occupying the space between his thumb and forefinger. Everyone straightened, Larry turned his head to see their manager walk across the street carrying some of their things from the dressing room and a grumpy look beneath his cap. Bono moved to get up, his bottom dragging over Edge's sensitive crotch and off onto the curb, legs still across Edge's lap, when he suddenly stilled.

“Bad news, fellas. They already took down our gear and want it out of the way. Let's get packing.”

“What?! They touched my drum kit?”

“The drum kit you left behind to hide in the dressing room, yes.”

“I was running for my life, alright?”

The voices turned to dim background noise as Edge looked up guiltily to meet Bono's intrigued stare with fiery red ears. He knew, Edge could tell. He had felt it and Edge was never going to hear the end of it. He was sweating, his heart pounding loudly in his ears, and he begged at Bono with his eyes - _Don't say anything. Please, please don't say anything, ignore it._

Seconds filled with panic passed, then suddenly Bono leaned in. Closer and closer, until his warm breath hit Edge's even warmer cheek. “Bono--” He didn't know where his hushed whisper was supposed to end nor did it ever get there. Whatever was going to happen, Edge felt sure he wasn't going to be able to take it. Hardly one full second later, the cold tip of Bono's nose pressed against his cheekbone first, then his lips followed. Bono hardly lingered, exhaled against Edge's cheek, then pulled back again with a sweet smack of his lips. Edge had closed his eyes tightly, shoulders faintly drawn up in defence, and as he hesitantly opened them again, Bono was smiling at him with his cheeky dimples and small teeth, just like always. Edge only blinked at him in mute bewilderment.

“We're freezing our arses off here,” Bono complained eventually and tore his eyes away, looking at the small group of three young men standing a couple of feet away and interrupting their somewhat agitated discussion about tonight's disaster. “Be a darling and toss us the coats, Paul, yeah?”

“How about you get your arses off the curb, it's fucking winter,” Paul grumbled and tossed both Edge's and Bono's coat to the couple sitting on the pavement without giving their huddled position a second thought. It was just like them. “Come on, we got to pack the van.”

 

 

***

Once back on more familiar grounds, Edge had to admit he was looking forward to spending Christmas at home after all. He was exhausted, both physically and mentally, from all the travelling, the many new places he had seen, performing almost every night since they had started touring in September and, of course, the Bono Problem. 

The Bono Problem had started out with a curious interest in the charismatic young man back at Mount Temple. Edge had never met anyone like him; loud, passionate and brazen with a head full of dreams and hopes, and a heart brimming with both love and rage. They were two sides of a coin, really. Whenever Bono grabbed his hand to take that leap and fly, Edge would tug at it and make sure they wore the appropriate wings first to make it work. They loved each other, in some complex, unconditionally loyal way they did, but once they had hit the road to conquer the world, Edge had to realize his feelings were quickly expanding into something more. At first, he had argued with himself that it was only natural; being 19 years old and thus basically horny 24/7 wasn't exactly a secret. With the girlfriend back home and only blokes to spend his time with, maybe it wasn't so weird that his mind had started fantasizing. And Bono was an attractive young man, Edge could admit at least that much. However, that didn't quite explain the funny tingle inside his belly whenever he made the singer laugh at his quips or the pride he felt when Bono sat just a little too close. And then there was the whole leather disaster.

Edge stared at the pair of trousers peeking out of Bono's opened suitcase sitting on the bottom bunk bed across from him. He was alone in the cold hostel room, cuddled up under his blankets and chewing absentmindedly on his thumb nail. Edge didn't know how long he had already been lying here; he had dozed off some time after the others had left to check out a nearby pub, still too jet lagged to come along and desperate for some alone time. But here he was again, feeling tormented by his thoughts and desires, and still none the wiser.

Surprisingly, Bono had been his jolly old self after the incident in front of Toad's Place. Edge didn't know what he had expected, really. There had been no teasing words, no questions after, no awkwardness from Bono's side. Nothing. Edge wondered whether Bono hadn't felt it after all, had just kissed him because that was what he always did when the mood struck. The thought was keeping him busy for days now and to top things off Edge wasn't even sure whether he was glad or disappointed that Bono might not have caught on to him and his problem after all.

Abruptly, he sat up. Hair askew and eyes still puffy from sleep, he wrapped his blanket around himself like an old king's cloak, naked toes resting on the cold floor as he stared at Bono's suitcase. He was sick of it, sick of feeling so tense, so out of control of what was happening to his body, so he got up in a temporary fit of truculence and walked over to Bono's bottom bunk, flopping down next to the suitcase. There it was, folded up in a way that showed Bono had at least tried to be neat about it, but really hadn't managed to in the end. They sat next to his white and black shirts, two pairs of jeans, and some socks and underwear. Edge glanced shortly at the additional storage space attached to the lid of the suitcase, spotting a book, a worn notepad and some odd shells he had picked up during their stay in Buffalo, then his eyes fell back on the jet black material.

He had never touched them, Edge realized, not even when Bono had landed in his lap. It had felt utterly impossible at the time, the thought of touching the material too unbearable and yet it was all Edge could think about, even now. A little worried, Edge wondered whether he had actually developed a fetish. He had heard about those, but the concept of having one himself seemed strangely bizarre. As a test, he pictured Larry in his leather jacket, but even after considering that look for a whole minute it didn't really do anything for him, except envy Larry for his handsome physique and the broad shoulders. Then he thought about the old leather couch in his parents' living room, pictured himself stripping down to nothing and lying down on it. That only made him feel uneasy and blush in embarrassment at the thought. Besides, Edge knew for a fact he could still feel arousal, even without the leather involved; it didn't play a necessary part in his sexual fantasies, even if it did occur more often now than not. No, it couldn't possibly be a leather fetish, his mind decided, and Edge was relieved to realize he could still make that observation after all.

And yet, as he reached out to touch the material, his hand hesitated and hovered mid-air. Edge bit his lip, his heartbeat stepped up a notch or two and his palms felt instantly sweaty. _I can't, I can't,_ he thought irrationally, afraid of what he might feel, if he got in actual contact with it. Hysterically, he imagined himself fainting and being found unconscious on Bono's bed by the guys hours later, laying face down in his opened suitcase. _Wouldn't that be fucking hilarious_ , Edge told himself daringly, his stomach dropping as the palm of his hand eventually pressed into the worn leather.

Edge stopped breathing altogether for a moment there, then pushed the remaining amount of air out of his lungs with sagging shoulders as his hand slowly dragged over the leather. He didn't faint, at least he thought he wasn't going to, but the surge that ran through him wasn't any less powerful or frightening. It started in his fingertips, his tactile senses suddenly burning up like fire and sending a thousand electrical impulses up his arm, the information flooding his brain like a crevasse and sending it into overdrive; and from there, it spread. Down his throat and into his chest, filling his ribcage and belly with such intense tickles, he thought he was going to burst. Edge quivered and closed his eyes tightly, bunched the leather up between his fingers until his hand was balled into a tight fist. 

“Oh god--” Behind his closed eyes, all the images returned. All the wet dreams he had had, all the nights he had watched Bono perform beneath bright stage lights – singing, smiling and sweating. Edge cursed as he was already rubbing at the crotch of his pyjama bottoms beneath his blanket, his fingers almost cruelly tight around his growing erection. He felt so helpless again, so weak and ashamed, but he couldn't stop himself, couldn't overcome this all consuming _need_ as a tear slipped down his nose and his hand pushed inside his pyjama bottoms impatiently. Edge thought he had never been so hard in his life, not even when a girl had undressed for him for the first time, and he closed his eyes even tighter, head hanging in shame as he realized with such painful clarity that he was going to come on his best friend's bed. 

Suddenly, he stopped. With his eyes open wide, lungs struggling for sufficient oxygen and cheeks wet, he tried to listen past the pulsing sound of his heartbeat in his ears to confirm what his subconscious had heard. Footsteps, quite a lot of them, and voices, laughter and giggles echoing down the hallway. Coming closer. Shit. Edge pulled his hand out of the suitcase so fast, one could have thought something inside had caught fire, and jumped up from the bed. He sniffed, hastily swiped his blanked across his tear-streaked face and took barely a look to check whether he wasn't leaving behind any signs that he had just sat there and jerked off seconds before. Then he shuffled quickly over and climbed into his own bunk again, his back turned to the room and knees drawn up.

“--told you they wouldn't serve you any Heineken in there.”

“Fuckin' Harp Lager was all they had, bloody shame.”

“Shh, guys. Look.”

“Christ, did he sleep all this time?”

“Must be properly knackered, then.”

“Come on, be quiet. Let him sleep.”

Someone touched Edge's shoulder, drew up his blanket a bit, and Edge only wanted to curl up further. Tears were still burning behind his closed eyes as he listened to their hushed voices, the rummaging about and naked feet padding along the floor to the bathroom and back. Someone was eating crisps, and he was still faintly aware of Adam climbing up to the bunk bed above him, as well as Larry and Bono whispering even after the light was out. Then he fell asleep.

 

 

***

Only two more days, Edge kept thinking, laying in his bed with his headphones on and walkman running. Two more days and they would be back in Dublin, play one more gig, then spend Christmas with the family at home. His siblings would be there, his sister would make his favourite for Christmas (apple pie with cinnamon, almonds and raisins), they would go to church and have a lovely time away from all this; not the touring per se, Edge still loved being on the road and playing gigs, but he hoped desperately that The Bono Problem would just disappear in the meantime, or at least give him a few weeks to figure things out. Maybe Aislinn would be interested in another date, Edge wondered, thinking about taking her to the cinema. He had seen the film posters in New York: Star Wars, Blues Brothers--

“Jesus Christ, Bono!”

Pushing himself up on his forearms, Edge tried to snatch his headphones out of Bono's hand, but failed and fell back into his pillow as Bono pushed him back with a playful shove and a smirk. Only then did Edge register the state of him, fresh out of the shower with wet locks of dark hair, a naked chest and belly, and Bono's leather trousers, straddling him; Edge blushed within an instant.

“What are you doing, why are you-- Get _off_ me.”

“Why, Edge, so you can continue moping about like you did all week long?”

“I'm not _moping_ ,” Edge argued, despite being very well aware of the fact that he had been distancing and isolating himself these last couple of days, too absorbed in his own thoughts and desperate to make it home without any more incidents that would confuse and embarrass him even further. He went for his headphones again, but Bono only held them out of reach with an infuriating chuckle and a glint in his eyes that told Edge to be wary.

“Yes, you are. Fucking off to your own little planet again,” Bono teased, pushing Edge back once more with no effort at all. “Where were you just now? Strolling down the Milky Way?” 

Edge could just about stifle the growl in the back of his throat. Annoyed by Bono's antics and the ease with which he kept pushing him back, he tried to be quick about it with his next attempt, grabbing Bono's arms and finally pushing himself upright. 

“Come back to me, Edge. Come back,” Bono nearly whispered right into Edge's blushing face, so obviously pleased with himself Edge wanted to throttle him as Bono successfully hid the headphones behind his back; and Edge tried to reach around without feeling too flustered by the closeness of his naked chest, his nose and mouth, the clean smell of him. Edge's chest heaved and he wanted to scream, he couldn't deal with this now. “Bono, please--”

“No.”

Bono dropped the headphones somewhere behind his back and between Edge's knees, his arms now free to move despite Edge's vice-like, white-knuckled grip around the crook of them, and wrestled back. _I'm not Larry_ , Edge wanted to yell, this was not how he dealt with stress, with anger. He couldn't fight like they did, throwing punches until they were too out of breath to be angry at each other anymore. That wasn't like Edge at all, but he couldn't get out a word as they shoved and pushed and gripped at each other in stoic silence. His throat was so tight, stubborn tears glinted in his eyes behind a shaggy brown fringe, and he wondered whether the wet flecks on his cheeks were actually tears or the water from Bono's dripping wild hair. 

They grunted and panted, then something that sounded like hard plastic cluttered to the floor, and Edge knew he had just accidentally kicked his walkman off the bed as he pushed with all his might; arms hard and tense and teeth gritting, throat growling, and then Bono gave and they flipped with a lot more momentum than either had anticipated. Their tiny hotel room turned momentarily upside down, everything tumbled, then went utterly still.

Edge stared down at the wheezing boy beneath him, wrists pinned into stark white sheets and slender thumbs digging into light blue veins. Bono's pulse was racing and so was his as his eyes raked from the panting red mouth he had seen in a dream to his shoulders, arms and chest, the light skin covered in rosy spots where Edge's fingers had gripped and groped too tightly. Bono looked at him, his eyes were hooded with exhaustion and the beginning of a smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. He looked so dangerous, wild and beautiful, and Edge knew with sudden clarity that he loved this boy, and he would love him always. There was nothing Edge could do about it, and that epiphany was such a relief in itself, he felt like weeping.

“Why--” Edge fought for breath still, glancing shortly down at their aligned bodies and heaving chests, then up again. “Why are you wearing those damned trousers?”

Bono's smile widened, as if he had only waited for Edge to ask this particular question. “Because you like them,” he whispered softly, as if there could be no simpler truth, the leather scrunching as he angled one of his legs just so, and their hips shifted the merest inch into one another. Bono was hard, so hard Edge could feel the outline of him press into his own erection. It was the most exhilarating thing he had ever felt, and Edge quaked against the suddenly pliant body beneath as he realized it was him who had caused that same maddening feeling of arousal he knew so well himself within the other. Bono gave the faintest nod, pupils wide and black, then Edge's body slowly rocked into action. He ground tentatively at first, the slide thick and heavy, groin against groin, a moan already tumbling from Edge's lips. He looked down between them, at a soft belly and his own wide shirt blocking the view from what he felt; a firm resistance that kept growing even harder with ever push, the unyielding poke of bone against bone, and soft thighs in sleek leather pressing against the flanks of his own. 

“It's okay,” Edge heard him whisper, Bono's voice trembling as much as Edge's body did, his shaky breath hitting Edge's brow as he still tried to watch himself grind against the leather-clad crotch. He _needed_ to see. “It's okay, Edge.” 

Edge moaned again, and it sounded almost pained, like sweet torture, and in a way it was. He bit his bottom lip hard, then his right hand hurried from Bono's wrist to his hip, clutched it, fingertips digging into the black material. It was warm, smooth and firm at the same time, and when the sharp bone beneath the leather fit snugly in Edge's palm, he pulled and pushed. Pulled up Bono's hip, and pushed down with his own. Again, again, again, claiming all the control he could now that he had the chance to get it back. And Bono surrendered to him, let Edge use his body on his wild chase to his peak, occasionally nudging his hips up in aid, but mainly observing, panting and mewling as Edge's hips bucked and snapped. It didn't take long until Edge's eyes rolled back, mouth falling open and body stuttering to a shaky halt. Edge uttered the softest of grunts as his selfish orgasm let him go, as if he wasn't quite comfortable enough to be as noisy about it as he wanted to be, and sagged against Bono below. Their noses brushed entirely by accident, close as they were, and Edge wanted to kiss him. Hard and equally soft, but he didn't dare and deviated, his lips merely brushing Bono's cheek in a way that couldn't even possibly count as a peck either.

“Wait,” Bono breathed heavily, just before Edge's mind could clear enough to wonder what had just happened, or even worry about what to do next. Bono shifted, and Edge scrunched up his nose a bit at the clammy feeling inside his pyjama bottoms, but he stayed where he was, even when he felt Bono's blunt fingers fumble near his crotch, his limbs too heavy to move anyway. The satisfying sound of a button being popped free mingled with their heavy breathing, then the hasty drag of a zipper followed. Edge stared at Bono's hooded blue eyes, hearing the suddenly familiar wet noise of skin against skin between them and feeling the sharp rhythmic movement that came with it against his lower belly. Bono was uncharacteristically silent about it, only stared back, his breath occasionally hitching, and then Edge couldn't bear it any longer, clumsily pulled off his shirt and looked down between them as soon as it came off. Bono didn't have much space, but he used it well, gripping his stiffy in a fist that altered between quick loose and tight strokes. He was so pink, Edge thought, even down there, and he could have sworn Bono had felt bigger against him earlier than he looked now.

“Come on, Edge, don't stare,” Bono quipped, voice hoarse and bordering on shy, and Edge stared just a second longer, watched the tip leak and Bono's thumb gather it up with another swooping stroke, picking up speed. “Kiss me,” Bono added, suddenly urgent, his hips barely rising off the mattress, but Edge could feel him press into his belly. “Kiss me. Please, please, please--” 

Edge kissed him. It wasn't deep, it wasn't even exactly sensual, it was clumsy and simple at best, and their lips only parted when Bono came and pushed little lost noises into Edge's warm mouth with humid puffs of air. He tensed hard under him, then sagged much like Edge had done minutes earlier, and yet their mouths were still locked. They kissed tentatively, until slow and shy got boring and their mouths opened, nipping and licking now, tongues daring deeper. Edge's head was spinning, and for a moment he believed himself to be in another one of his dreams, not because this felt unreal, but so familiar, and it couldn't be. 

Eventually, they had to part to breathe, and Bono chuckled happily against Edge's chin, like he sometimes did when he was really drunk and nuzzling Edge's neck on their bumpy walk home from a pub or party back in Dublin. “Should've bought these earlier,” Bono smiled and Edge noticed the same rosy shade of pink on Bono's cheeks as it could be found anywhere else on his aroused body. He blinked, feeling Bono's lips at his jaw, his sluggish post-orgasm brain only slowly picking up on what Bono was actually saying. “What?”

For emphasis, Bono raised one of his knees a little higher, the leather dragging past Edge's thigh. “If that's what it takes, then I'll wear them until they fall off.” There was something serious and honest about Bono's voice, but then his lips found Edge's again, and he forgot to say that it wasn't about the leather trousers at all. Maybe later, Edge told himself, eyes closed and his mouth full with Bono's taste. Maybe later he would ask about what it all meant, why Bono was kissing him with a yearning that couldn't possibly be recent, and what they were going to do about it. 

Hours later, however, Bono was softly snoring beside Edge, still sharing the same bed. Edge was spooned up behind the smaller boy, his pyjama bottoms still filthy and riding low on his hips as he tried to settle down for sleep himself. Snuggling up, he felt himself grow hard again against Bono's rump, but now it felt comfortable and soothing instead of wrong and stressful. Only two more days, he thought and smiled as Bono mumbled in his sleep. Already, Edge couldn't wait to be on the road again.

**Author's Note:**

> I actually have a sequel planned for this, which will see the light of day sooner or later. I just love the U2 babies so much, it's too much fun to write!
> 
> Thank you, the-achtung-babe (Tumblr), for being my beta for this one <3 You basically saved my ass. All remaining mistakes are my own. This also never happened, of course, I'm just having fun with words.


End file.
